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“Your dessert, sir,” the waiter says as he extends his arm across the table to set a small plate right in front of Aziraphale.
It’s square shaped and white with a lovely array of circular designs decorating the surface, and there, right in the very center, sits a clean cut triangular slice of cake. The varying geometry plays incredibly well off of each other, offering up an exquisite presentation of the dish. But Crowley knows that it’s the food itself that truly catches Aziraphale’s eye, of course.
Soft white cake, smothered in strawberries and a dollop of whipped cream. It looks absolutely heavenly. Even Crowley will admit it makes his mouth water a little.
“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale replies, clapping his hands together in front of him.
The waiter disappears from the side of the table, and Aziraphale’s hand moves to hover over his fork— wanting to take it, yet not quite finished admiring.
“Angel food cake, how lovely. My favorite,” Aziraphale says gleefully, smiling down at his plate.
It’s Crowley’s favorite kind of smile— the one Aziraphale reserves strictly for meals and Crowley himself. A soft little thing, glittering with admiration and rapture. Whenever it’s directed at him, it makes Crowley’s toes curl.
“I prefer devil’s food cake myself,” Crowley drawls, tipping his glass of champagne up towards his lips. He swallows a sip and flicks his eyebrows up at Aziraphale. A smirk lurks behind the edge of his glass.
A low chuckle comes from Aziraphale, and he turns that smile to Crowley. “Of course you do,” he says, not unkindly. His fingers curl around the end of the fork and he raises it ever so slightly from the napkin. “I’m hardly surprised by that.”
Crowley tilts his head. “How do you mean?”
Aziraphale pauses a moment— contemplating his phrasing, perhaps; he always is so cognizant of the words he chooses. “Well,” he starts, “devil’s food is chocolate cake, yes? With chocolate filling, too. Very rich flavors all around. And, my dear, I do believe you are quite a rich flavor yourself.”
Crowley leans back in his seat, eyebrows lifting on their own accord. He purses his lips and then drifts forwards again to rest his chin against his knuckles. “A rich flavor?” He repeats, amusement dripping in his inflection.
“I just mean that you’re…” he waves his fork around the air as he waffles for an explanation, “there’s a lot to you, is all,” he finally settles on. “You’re… you’re vivid , Crowley.”
Crowley’s very thankful he decided to keep his sunglasses on, though it would be handy if perhaps they had curtains that could hide away his dreadfully traitorous cheeks as a rosy flush starts to color them.
He doesn’t really know what to say back to that, either. He could thank Aziraphale, but that seems almost ingenuine. There’s always returning the sentiment, though that’s not really Crowley’s style, either.
Instead, in one fluid motion, he picks up his own fork and swoops over to steal a piece of Aziraphale’s cake— despite just admitting he prefers its counterpart.
Aziraphale is vigilant, though, when it comes to his food. He half-heartedly tries to swat Crowley’s fork away, but it’s obvious he doesn’t mind. “I thought you didn’t want any dessert,” he points out playfully.
Crowley places the fork against his lips before feeding himself the bite. He chews slowly, then swallows. “It’s just a little taste,” he says. His tongue darts out to clean the side of his fork of a bit of whipped cream he missed. “Don’t worry, angel, I won’t steal your cake. It’s all yours now.”
“Angel?” Aziraphale repeats. His lips press together tightly, an obvious attempt to quell the all too pleased smile threatening to take over. His eyes drop down to his lap, bashful, before flickering back up to fix on Crowley. Curiosity reflects into Crowley’s sunglasses. There’s a hint of color in the apples of Aziraphale’s cheeks, but he looks rather chuffed by Crowley’s slip up.
And, really, that’s exactly what it is— a slip up. Crowley didn’t exactly mean for the nickname to fall from his lips, but, well, it did. He can’t really take it back now, not that he wants to.
“You don’t like it?” Crowley asks, unsure, fidgeting in his seat. He sits up a little straighter, scratches at his thigh, and presses the heel of his palm into his knee. Then he brings his hand up to tuck a loose piece of hair behind his ear. “I, uh, figured it fits… what with angel food being your favorite and all,” he rushes to explain, but it’s not quite the full extent of the explanation… which decides to spill out of his mouth anyways. “And, er, your, uh, flavor , I suppose. Kind, helpful, ethereal .” And because he’s already exposed himself this much… “Your hair too,” he adds, gesturing at his own. “Very… fluffy. Cherubic, and the like.”
His face is properly burning now; it feels like it’s as bright as his hair. It also feels a bit like everyone in the restaurant has their eyes on him— which he knows, logically, isn’t true. And, did someone turn the heat on?
Oh, what he wouldn’t give for the floor to open up and swallow him whole right about now.
Again, he’s grateful for the remaining defense he has left, the only thing allowing himself to hold onto his last shred of dignity— his sunglasses. He pointedly keeps his eyes fixed on the table, steadfastly avoiding Aziraphale entirely.
A warm chuckle has Crowley sparing a peek only to see Aziraphale’s lips spread wider. Little crinkles form at the corners of his eyes, which radiate a certain fondness and affection.
“No, no, I rather like it very much, my dear,” Aziraphale says.
And, at first, Crowley thinks he may be joking. Yanking his chain. Having a go at him. But… but then Aziraphale reaches out to settle his hand atop Crowley’s where it’s resting against his thigh. Crowley’s fingers still around the loose thread he was picking at.
His eyes flicker up to meet Aziraphale’s, lips parting in surprise as he finds no traces of jest or mockery. Not one single trace. Just genuinity painting every inch, molding every feature.
“O-oh. Oh, that’s… very well, then. Tickety-boo,” Crowley says. Then immediately makes a face. Good lord, his brain has clearly completely shut down in the midst of this panic.
That pulls a bark of laughter from Aziraphale, pure, unadulterated laughter. His hand— the one not still covering Crowley’s— flies up to cover his mouth. “Have I broken you?” He questions teasingly.
Crowley sticks out his tongue a little like he’s trying to rid himself of that taste of that phrase. He shakes his head and lets out a scoff followed by a series of unintelligible sounds from the back of his throat. “No, I’m… ngk… I’m… no , you haven’t broken me ,” he says, draping himself back against his chair, a last ditch effort at finding his footing and regaining his composure.
Aziraphale has this adorably fond expression on as he watches Crowley reassimilate.
Crowley scowls. It’s just for show, though, no real malice behind it. He clears his throat and steadfastly tries to act like he didn’t just transform into a blithering schoolboy with a crush just then.
“So, the cake…” he starts, with an air of nonchalance, “how is it? Sweet enough for you?”
Aziraphale turns to the cake and takes his first bite of it. He chews contemplatively for a moment before an absolutely delighted look covers his face. He brings his napkin up to pat at the corners of his lips.
“Oh, yes, my dear,” he answers. “Quite lovely, very light and airy— the perfect sponge, really. And the strawberries! Delightful! So fresh!”
Crowley has to bite back a grin at the way Aziraphale turns into an overexcited child at the prospect of discussing flavor palettes and combinations. It’s rather cute, not that he’d ever admit to thinking that out loud.
“But,” Aziraphale continues, drawing Crowley’s attention once more. “I suspect that even if it wasn’t sweet enough that wouldn’t much matter.”
This surprises Crowley. He lifts an eyebrow at Aziraphale. “Really?”
“Certainly,” Aziraphale says. “Do you know why?”
“Why’s that?”
Aziraphale shifts his body towards Crowley’s, and ducks his head like he’s about to share a secret. He tilts his head conspiratorially and his eyes glint as he says, “I do believe you’re much sweeter, dear boy.” Then he pecks Crowley on the cheek.
Crowley goes beet red at that and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.
“Ngk, angel !”